


i'd let you strike me down

by aretuza



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Boys In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Timeline What Timeline, acts of service as love language, is that a tag or is that just his character tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aretuza/pseuds/aretuza
Summary: "If there was one thing Geralt knew, it was how to end fights. And Jaskier had proven particularly adept at starting them. Thus, Geralt concluded: Jaskier would learn to fight.Geralt would teach him."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 227
Collections: Geraskier Holiday Exchange 2020





	i'd let you strike me down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Heather [@inflomora_art](https://twitter.com/inflomora_art) as part of the 2020 Geraskier Holiday Exchange!
> 
> the prompt i ran with was 'Geralt teaching Jaskier to fight'
> 
> This isn't my first fic ever, but it is my first fic published in a looOOoooong time (and possibly my first fic published in such an active fandom lol). I had such a great time writing this and it feels so good to gift it to someone!
> 
> biggest thanks and love go to Shannay, who i drag into every mess with me and who didn't question the 5 different versions of this that I sent! any and all mistakes are strictly my own.
> 
> No warnings except for excessive geralt-centric introspection and my gross overuse of the semi colon. What limited knowledge of swordplay I possess comes directly from skyrim and black sails. Any actual canon featured in this fic is purely coincidental.

Once upon a time, Geralt had thought he’d figured Jaskier out. A flirt, a scatter-brained artist type, a philandering musician, an impulsive poet – all of his assessments lead to the same, superficial conclusion: although Jaskier spoke with the tenacity of ten men, he was, ultimately, just one, visibly unarmed bard.

From the moment Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt’s side like a burr, Geralt had taken one look at the decorative ruffles of his doublet, the intricate embroidery of his chemise, and the thin leather of his fashionable boots, and foreseen the trouble that would befall the bard, and by proxy, himself. He hadn’t even carried a pack, for Melitele’s sake. His whole life in his pockets, and the strings of his lute. 

Geralt wasn’t one to make a habit of stereotyping people, but with Jaskier, he was vigilant of an inevitable conclusion: the moment that Jaskier would grow bored of scrubbing ichor from his silk trousers, or setting up camp in the damp and dark, his only companion for miles around a surly mutant and a belligerent horse.

Until then – since the bard insisted on throwing himself headfirst into conflicts he had neither the capacity, nor intention, of finishing – Geralt decided that a necessary, and mutually beneficial, lesson was in order. It was a low stakes gambit – either Jaskier acquiesced, and Geralt (for better or worse) got some sparring in, and taught Jaskier how to defend himself; or Jaskier refused, in which case he’d probably leave. Likely for good. Geralt didn’t dwell on the hollow feeling that sat in his chest when the prospect of Jaskier’s departure crossed his mind. He’d gotten too used to the hearty meals, hot baths, and the marked decrease in screaming villagers hurling rocks as he passed through town. Gotten too comfortable.

No matter. If there was one thing Geralt knew, it was how to end fights. And Jaskier had proven particularly adept at starting them. Thus, Geralt concluded: Jaskier would learn to fight.

Geralt would teach him.

* * *

Having spent his life hanging on by the skin of his teeth, Geralt is always impressed with Jaskier's commitment to doing it tough. 

If there was one thing that Geralt felt justified in puzzling over, it was how on earth the bard had managed to survive as long as he had, with nothing but his wits and his music, when at every other turn, Geralt found himself facing down a threat that seemed to be directed at the bard. 

Given that the lad that had followed him out of Posada had been woefully unprepared for even a modest life on the road, let alone a life following a Witcher on the Path, perhaps it wasn’t all that peculiar that Jaskier attracted (and was certainly attracted _to_ ) danger and drama in equal measure.

But the genuinely puzzling aspect was that Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. Of course, Geralt knew that if offered an inch, Jaskier would take a mile without so much as a by-your-leave; but for a man whose entire lifestyle revolved very heavily around self-preservation, he simply didn’t take the threats against his person seriously. And why should he? When it was in fact Geralt who prevented any and all threats to his person, no matter how much he claimed to wish them upon him.

And Geralt couldn’t say he minded too much either, especially since the danger that Jaskier seemed to summon onto himself was often far less mortal peril and more minor inconvenience. After decades of being chased, hacked at, clawed, and spat at; standing behind Jaskier, and scowling at some burly blacksmith’s son or daughter proved less of a hardship than it was simply a pastime.

That being said, the situations that proved to be more dicey – encounters with bandits, jilted ex-lovers, or notably, a particularly brazen bruxa – ultimately strengthened Geralt’s resolve. 

It wasn’t enough for Jaskier to know that Geralt would protect him; he had to learn to protect himself.

Geralt very deliberately didn’t think too hard about why sharing life skills with a foppish minstrel had suddenly become a personal mission of his; why he spent the Winter mentally stockpiling tips and facts that would make a lasting - and useful - impression on a bard. But somehow the thought of Jaskier out there on the Continent, alone, and unable to call on Geralt for help, even in some cursory way, lodged itself like a splinter and refused to leave his mind.

The pull of finding Jaskier in the spring was not unlike the instinct to head North for the winter. It was useless to resist, and Geralt had long since given up fighting the impulse.

So when the snows melted, and he prepared Roach for the Path once more, he also prepared his lesson.

* * *

They’ve set up camp in a small clearing, a stone’s throw away from some Redanian shithole where the villagers took one look at Geralt and chose to forget all about the noonwraith terrorising their surrounding fields. The alderman had barely opened the door to dump the bag of coins at Geralt’s feet, before slamming it right back in his face. Sensing the place wasn’t going to grace them with rural hospitality, they’d moved on.

Now, pulling his swords from his pack, Geralt is determined to take advantage of the crisp morning and the solitude of the forest.

Jaskier barely looks up from where he’s sprawled by the campfire, but Geralt can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Growing uncertain in your abilities, Geralt? Or are you just that unused to rest?”

Geralt inhales, deep and even. “Take off your shirt.” 

He holds the steel sword out to Jaskier, who whips his head up so fast, Geralt’s worried he’s pulled something.

“I beg your pardon?”

Geralt simply drops the sword by Jaskier’s outstretched legs.

“It’ll do you some good,” He says, rolling his shirt sleeve up to his elbow. Jaskier nudges the steel sword with the toe of his boot, brow furrowed.

“Do me some good?” Jaskier echoes, blinking owlishly. “Geralt, are you well?”

Geralt shuts his eyes with a sigh. “You’re blue shirt. Take it off.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows all but disappear under his fringe. “First of all, this ‘blue shirt’ is a doublet. Honestly, Geralt. Secondly, it was very expensive. And thirdly why, pray tell the fuck, would I do that?”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. Only barely.

“You’re unarmed. And yet you travel with me.” Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he looks like he very much wants to. He seems to be waiting for Geralt to continue, however. Geralt sighs. 

Jaskier doesn’t get it.

“It’s not safe. Until you get your own weapon, we will practice with mine. It will help. For when you’re on the road. As well as in other… situations. Where you seem to attract trouble.” he levels a look at Jaskier, who scoffs loudly.

“Alright dear Witcher,” Geralt resolutely ignores the easy endearment, and the way it makes something deep in his chest flutter pleasantly. “You can go ahead to say what you’re implying. You want to teach me to fight because I’m a liability.”

Geralt lets his scowl take over.

“I want to teach you to fight so that you can fend off the errant rolling pins and frying pans that most of your assailants wield, on your own. I can get chased out of town on my own merit, I don’t need your angry conquests contributing to the experience.”

Jaskier raises his hand to his chest as a maiden might clutch at her pearls.

“Angry conquests? _Rolling pins?_ Oh, you’re in a mood indeed!” He exclaims, gasping for effect. He scrambles to his feet. Fiddling with the cuffs of his doublet, he’s pouting. “When have I ever gotten us into any real trouble, huh? I swear that werewolf wasn’t even my fault-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt can’t remember ever sighing this much in his life. “For better or for worse, you have a reputation. As much for your music as you do for being my friend,” Geralt only hopes his voice remains level. “There will be people who appreciate neither. They will mean to do you harm.” Jaskier rolls his eyes dramatically. “That, and if you throw yourself into another fight unarmed, I swear to you, I will leave you in a swamp, bound and gagged, and let the gods decide your fate.”

Jaskier immediately opens his mouth to retort, but seems to think better of it. Not that the threat had much weight, considering that Geralt had in fact rescued Jaskier from a sticky situation in a swamp not a fortnight ago. But the point seems clear. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. 

“Fine, alright. I’ll indulge you with your sparring session.” He looks resigned. A look of consternation passes over his face, just briefly. A fleeting look that seemed almost evasive, before it is schooled into a half smile. “Are you sure it’s even necessary? I mean, I have _some_ training…”

“You have combat training,” it wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t a confirmation. It was mostly Geralt testing the words on his tongue, and trying to figure out if Jaskier would truly lie about something like that. In any case, Jaskier doesn’t appear to appreciate Geralt dubious tone.

“I’ll have you know my father employed a highly skilled swordmaster,” Jaskier splutters indignantly. “For _many_ years! Even my sisters received training! We practiced with the finest blades forged in Kerack— you don’t believe me.”

Geralt tilts his head but says nothing. Jaskier’s face shifts through several interesting expressions before finally settling on righteous offence. It was really too easy to rile the bard up, and far too satisfying.

Before he can lapse into a rant, Geralt flicks at his collar. “For ease of movement. Off.”

Jaskier complies, muttering darkly all the while, folding his doublet neatly on top of his bedroll. He crouches to pick up the steel sword Geralt had offered him, and follows the Witcher out onto the grass.

“For Melitele’s sake, I’m a _bard_ Geralt; there’s a _reason_ I don’t carry a sword. These are an artist's hands! Can you imagine an armed bard? And you accuse me of inviting trouble as it is!” Although he has a point -- a troubadour with a cutlass strapped to his lute case would likely provoke more unwanted attention than dispel it -- it doesn’t mean that Jaskier wouldn’t benefit from some instruction, even (or especially) if it had been some time since he’d received it.

Geralt does actually believe him – even the casual way that Jaskier holds the broadsword indicates experience, perhaps even more than he’s letting on. 

He holds it firmly, fingers flexing around the leather grip. In fact, the longer Geralt observes Jaskier the more he begins to regret the whole endeavour. Jaskier’s rolling up the sleeves of his chemise; the loose shirt tapered at the waist and disappearing into the bright silk trousers he will no doubt complain about ruining. Jaskier’s collar dips low, and shows off his hirsute chest; the muscles and tendons in his arms flex as he shifts the weight of the steel sword. He looks roguish and louche, every bit the noble brat he was evidently brought up to be. Distracting in a way that has Geralt gritting his teeth.

The sooner the lesson gets underway, the sooner it can conclude. Geralt figures Jaskier would probably tire rapidly anyway, unused to the activity.

Geralt clears his throat. “Adjust your stance, engage your core,”

He demonstrates the position himself, bending his knees slightly and rolling his shoulders back. Jaskier mirrors his posture. “Lift the blade from your centre. Keep your weight over your toes,” he swings the silver sword slowly, telegraphing the movement, encouraging Jaskier to deflect it. He does, catching Geralt’s eye above the crossed blades.

“You know Geralt, I recall as much from when I was a boy,” he pulls back slightly, and swings at Geralt – just as slowly, just as carefully, waiting for Geralt’s blade to meet his overhead.

“Don’t watch my eyes,” was all Geralt can say. Jaskier blinks. “If you’re watching my eyes, you’re only watching the intent of the blow, you’re not watching where it’s going.”

“What am I supposed to be watching the-OW!” Jaskier jumps back, rubbing at his upper arm where Geralt had smacked him with the flat of his blade.

Geralt lets himself smirk. “The blade. Watch the blade,” he swings the sword around with a flex of his wrist. “What good is knowing the intent if you cannot intercept the attack.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier regards Geralt for a long moment. “Well, what do you know, you _have_ taught me something. Now let’s get some breakfast—”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt doesn’t meant to growl, but suddenly that evasive look is back, and Jaskier’s manner is starting to get annoying. For a man whose curiosity had endangered him more than once, and who regularly admonished Geralt for withholding details apparently critical to lyrical integrity, he seems uncharacteristically cagey when faced with the opportunity of learning from a trained Witcher of the Wolf School. “I mean it. What the fuck?”

“I know how to fight Geralt, just let it go,” The smile Jaskier has plastered on is brittle, and he refuses to hold Geralt’s gaze.

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

Geralt stretches his neck from side to side, satisfied with the cracking noise that echoes between them. He steps back slightly -- it’s a defensive posture, but an invitation, nonetheless. He’s goading.

He wants Jaskier to swing first, he wants to test him. And Jaskier, with a frustrated huff, takes the bait immediately.

He steps forward steadily, sword swinging in a wide arc, blade catching with a screech against Geralt’s. As steel slides against silver, Jaskier swings again; forcing Geralt to step back once more, blocking Jaskier’s blow. Geralt is honestly impressed. Jaskier’s hits are not rapid, but they are calculated, and they lack the theatricality he had expected from the bard, especially given his admission of nobility.

He feels the familiar warmth that comes from running through drills in the courtyard at Kaer Morhen, of Vesemir barking corrections at him -- to tuck his chin and stop favouring his left leg. It’s the same feeling that he gets from play-fighting with his brothers; re-enacting the more exciting and harrowing fights of the year; swapping tips and tricks; and comparing scars.

What Jaskier is demonstrating, it's not quite a style conducive to fighting a feral creature - no kikimora is going to fly at you with measured strokes and chivalry. But it's clearly effective. It has the quality of a dance, a fluidity of movement that Geralt somehow recognises, understands. With practice, it has the potential to do some damage. And Geralt is still yet to land a hit.

The thought brings a feral joy, as does the look of concentration on the bard's face, the fact that he hasn't yet stepped aside and given up.

Jaskier is moving surely. Geralt takes a moment to catalogue his movements and judge his form. He is remarkably efficient – he isn’t twisting his spine, or pitching his shoulders too far, and although his footwork could be stronger, his strikes are clean, rehearsed. Geralt decides to push him. He feints a jab up high, before swinging in down low, aiming to stop the blade against Jaskier's ribs.

Except Jaskier's blade is there, pressed tight between his linen chemise and the glinting silver, he's contracted his body, swinging tightly to prevent the blow. He was fast. Faster than Geralt expected, and he's holding Geralt back with not inconsiderable strength, eyes a little wild.

The move wasn't advanced, per se, but it wasn't a block he was expecting from an undertrained musician. It's the kind of manoeuvre borne from combat. It's the kind of thing Geralt's done, when he's stepped in too close, forgotten his enemy is sentient, human, and not a wildly flailing monster.

Jaskier hasn't given up yet, instead he eyes Geralt warily over his own arm. Geralt feels his eyes narrow, and he steps back delicately. The two of them circle one another, and Geralt is struck by the balanced steps the bard makes in mirror to his own.

He makes a swift decision, and lunges.

Jaskier's eyes bulge, and he makes an aborted yelp, but he brings his sword up to block Geralt's attack. Geralt feels his lip twitch, sees Jaskier's eyes flick to his mouth, before those blue eyes harden, and Jaskier pushes through, crossguard catching slightly, pushing Geralt's blade down and around.

Geralt is enjoying himself. He lets his blade drop slightly, lets Jaskier adjust his stance, and grins finally when Jaskier sweeps his sword down.

What he lacks in bulk, and sheer force, the bard makes up for in control. Jaskier turns neatly, parrying swiftly and effectively, keeping the sharp edge of Geralt's sword at bay. Geralt finds himself shifting into a less forced defensive stance; caught in the flurry of movement, genuinely surprised by Jaskier’s skill. 

These are not the half-remembered lessons of youth – these are the practiced motions of a trained man.

Especially when Jaskier swings again, blade held high above his head. It's a move that belies Jaskier's strength, and awareness - since the blade is positioned deliberately flat. Geralt catches it, barely; and it's not the strike that sparks suspicion, it's the pattern of movements. 

It feels coordinated. Familiar, even. Like he's been here before. The thought makes Geralt hesitate, a half second that allows Jaskier enough of an opening to duck low, whirl, and smack the flat of his blade against Geralt’s upper thigh.

It stings, enough for Geralt to flinch. The bard’s surprise is palpable. He falters, eyes wide and panting; and it offers Geralt the reprieve he needs. 

He aims with the tip of the sword, steps quickly, and uses the strength of his whole arm, and Jaskier's distraction, to leverage the sword from Jaskier’s grip. The steel sings through the air as though caught in the breeze, before it landed with a muted thud in the grass.

Colour high in his cheeks, lips red and bitten, beads of sweat dripping into his collar - Jaskier looks debauched. It’s enough to make Geralt’s eyes linger and his breath catch in his lungs. But no matter how Jaskier looks, it doesn’t explain how he moves.

“How did you do that?” Jaskier seems largely unperturbed by the fact that he is being questioned by an armed Witcher. "Who taught you?" Jaskier shifts slightly from foot to foot. Sheepish in a way that doesn’t fit his confident manoeuvres. He even seems to have expected Geralt’s question.

Geralt waits. Jaskier seems to be weighing his words. Finally, he sighs, defeated. 

“I learnt from you,” he says, voice pitched low, almost a murmur. Geralt feels his brow furrow in confusion.

“From _me_?”

Jaskier inclines his head. “In a manner of speaking,” he mutters, eyes shuttered.

He looks away, over at Roach who is paying neither of them any mind, picking through a verdant blanket of grass and wildflowers. He licks his lips before speaking again, and Geralt has to consciously drag his eyes away from the pink sheen of them. 

“I’ve been watching you for years, you know. You must know…” he trails off for a moment, before finding his resolve again. “I was always… so mesmerised by your technique.”

Gods, this man never stops moving. He’s plucking at a thread on his sleeve, he’s shuffling his feet in the grass. He’s chewing his lip. Geralt wants so badly for him to just look him in the eye. To be still.

“Your style it’s… unique. Ha. Like you didn’t know that. And I wanted to see if I could replicate it,” his speech takes on speed, and with it, Geralt finds himself watching the bard pace a tight circle in the clearing, gesticulating wildly. “And so I kept watching you, every time you fought. And when I’d come back to Oxenfurt, I’d practice. Except my friends, they saw me, and they became interested in it too. So we’d drink wine together, and I’d reenact some of your contracts for them, whilst attempting to practice and— um, Geralt?”

Geralt hadn’t even realised he’d dropped his sword, let alone that he’d reached out his hands. Except now his fingers are wrapped around Jaskier’s wrists – both of them caught, and pressed against his chest. Jaskier’s shoulders have creeped up, and he seems to be caving in on himself. But at least he’s stopped pacing.

Being held in place by a Witcher has that effect.

“Geralt? Geralt, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, I mean, you have all these rules, and secrets, associated with the Trials, I know it was stupid and I overstepped and—”

“You've been... _studying_ me?”

Jaskier’s words grind to a halt, but his mouth keeps moving, giving him the appearance of a fish suddenly finding itself hanging in mid-air. His eyes, huge and blue and bright, blink rapidly. “Y-yes? Well yes, I mean, your combat technique--”

It’s Geralt’s turn to blink stupidly. “On purpose?”Jaskier shut his mouth with an audible click, and nods, very slowly. “Why?”

The knowledge that Jaskier's been paying such strict attention to him as to memorise his fighting techniques is heady enough. The fact that he spends his personal time - time intended for rest, for reconnecting with his life - trying to put that observation into to practice. To emulate him. Knowing that Jaskier spends his free time training to _move_ like him... it sparks something white hot within him.

The sound that escapes the bard seems involuntary, and somewhat painful. It might have been a laugh, maybe at some point.

“ _Why_ ? Because I wanted to understand you. I- I wanted to be close to you, even when I wasn't physically. I wanted to _know_ you. Because–” Jaskier sighs again, and seems to deflate on the spot, all the tension leaving his body. Geralt is suddenly aware how close they stand, almost chest to chest, Jaskier’s wrists still pressed between them. “You must know,” it is barely a whisper, but Geralt still feels it reverberate through his bones.

Geralt removes his hand from around Jaskier’s, and gently tips his chin up with his fingers. Jaskier finally, _finally_ , turns his eyes up to lock them with Geralt’s, teeth still worrying his bottom lip. Unable to resist, Geralt sweeps the pad of his thumb up and over the swell of his lip, pulling it from his teeth, feeling the uneven puffs of air across his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt feels, as much as heards, the breathless whisper, across his knuckles, setting somewhere behind his sternum.

Lowering his face to Jaskier’s until their noses brush, Geralt can’t resist just staying there, feeling the warmth of Jaskier’s skin against his own, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

“Don’t be. You're not half bad.”

Jaskier scoffs. "What high praise, Witcher. Thank you,"

Geralt licks his lips. "I mean it,"

Between his exhaled words, and his next breath, Jaskier’s lips are pressed to his, slick and warm. The bard is pressing into him with his whole body, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. 

All of Geralt’s senses are attuned to Jaskier. Jaskier’s teeth biting at his lips, swallowing down his soft moans. Jaskier’s sweat-damp hair between his fingers, his jaw cradled in his palm. The scent of him – pine and citrus and sweat – enveloping.

_Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier._

It takes a bone-deep strength he barely has to pull away, to trail kisses up the curve of Jaskier’s cheek and to press his lips to the shell of his ear.

“You know, if you want to train like a Witcher," Geralt murmurs the invitation with lungs devoid of air. "I know the perfect place you could spend winter…”

Jaskier’s laugh, deep and melodious and reverberating, rocks Geralt to the core.

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, a breathless thing. "Yes, I'd like that."

The bard pulls back, just slightly, so that Geralt can see the way he's grinning, his eyes crinkling, a shining joy no doubt reflected in Geralt's own gaze. He's beautiful, and Geralt needs to kiss him again.

Jaskier allows himself to be pulled in, but rears back suddenly, smile turning cheeky. "Do I get to keep the sword?"

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so much for reading!
> 
> i've been on [tumblr](https://eileentide.tumblr.com) forever so come chat!


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